


ashes to ashes

by thedisasternerd



Series: études [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anyway this has discussions of Painful Things, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Pain, Post-Order 66, Rated For Violence, Rated for unpleasant subjects pretty much, So much mcfucking mcpain, War, War Crimes, War Is Not Pretty, technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:00:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24707245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedisasternerd/pseuds/thedisasternerd
Summary: The light blinds him, and he blinks muzzily, squinting at his surroundings.It's yellow. Ochre dirt. Fine yellow sand. Orange rock. He wants to brush his fingers through it, then mix it with water. Paint one last cry with it.---A final moment.
Series: études [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1798291
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56





	ashes to ashes

**Author's Note:**

> tw: blood, injury, discussions and depictions of war crimes, death, etc.

The sand crunches between his teeth, mixing with his own blood to form a gritty cocktail in his mouth. They've got a gag in his mouth so he can't even spit, not that he'd want to, not with the bag over his head. It reeks of stale blood, sweat and vomit; he's not unused to that combination but it's still disgusting. It reminds him of yet more horrors, ones that he ignored, mind blank save for _good soldiers follow orders_ and a scrolling list of commands. Get through them systematically and he'd be a good soldier, he'd thought as he aimed a blaster. As he'd located, his _(no not his, never his, not anymore_ ) general, riding around on that stupid lizard - his _general_ , his _Jedi_ , who'd been a traitor, a murderer, only ten beatings and so many days ago. Or maybe it wastwas He stopped counting after the second.

They've taken his armour, and he's left in his ripped, filthy blacks - foul, sticking to his skin. He can pinpoint at least three (four? Five if he counts the hole where his heart used to be) major injuries that are probably - definitely - going septic, too hot, itching maddeningly since his hands are tied, and spreading a dull ache of poison through his bones on top of... everything else.

Not like they care. He's scheduled for a public execution, after all. This is how it will all end, like it should've so long ago - under blaster fire. Except he's dying for his crimes, rather than for... not the Republic, that would be a lie. But for his vod'e. For his general. 

(But his vod'e are either dead, or worse. And his general - he's dead because Cody ordered him to be shot, and he can still see the varactyl falling and a tiny figure disappearing into the water-)

Cody wonders how they'll kill him. Slowly, probably. He doesn't deserve a quick death, not after all he's done. Maybe they'll drown him, like-

like-

The tears don't come anymore. The whispered orders are gone and the emptiness they left is maybe even worse, though, and there's something scratching around between the cracks. It scares him; he doesn't know what it is, doesn't want to know. Maybe he's going mad. Maybe it's the guilt, finally breaking him. Maybe the... whatever it was that controlled him, the chips Rex (gods _Rex_ ) had warned him of (he should've _listened_ ), has utterly fried his brains.

He doesn't know how long it's been - he was still fairly well put together, at least not decommissioned, when the illusion broke. When he woke up. 

They'd noticed, almost straight away, that something was wrong. They didn't even think he deserved a firing squad. (He'd been demoted from marshall commander Cody to just another number within a month of the rise of the Empire. From then on he was nothing. Just CC-2224, with yellow paint still in the deepest scratches in his old armour.)

When they realised, he was left on some dustball planet, at the tender mercy of the locals.

 _Slave,_ they'd called him, with fear in their eyes. _Clone._

Then came the other words _: murderer, killing machine, copy, scum, abomination-_

The list goes on. He finds that he doesn't care anymore. A few years and an entire lifetime ago he'd have agonised over the cruelty lacing the voices. Now, though, why should he care? It's not like there's much to live for, and as far as he knows, the people he would've lived for are dead - or worse, dead because he killed them. Or, even _worse_ than that - just like he was. Nothing more than battle droids made of flesh and bone with a thin exoskeleton of metal. Hollow inside. 

_Our actions define our legacy_ , someone had said, sometime. Remembering their face hurts. 

_The legacy of a murderer is to die at the hands of those he murdered_ , he thinks, instead of remembering (it hurts less). _Justice is served_.

-he grunts as he's forced to his knees, his entire body protesting at being manhandled. At least he'd been able to walk for however long. Before he can think too much about the implications of everything, the hood is yanked off his head and the gag is ripped out of his mouth. The light blinds him, and he blinks muzzily, squinting at his surroundings. 

It's yellow. Ochre dirt. Fine yellow sand. Orange rock. He wants to brush his fingers through it, then mix it with water. Paint one last cry with it.

He spits instead, watching his blood stain the familiar ochre, and someone kicks him. Every breath is fire after that.

He can't lift his head up much, but from what he can see, he's surrounded. Not that he's willing to fight his way out, but old habits are hard to ignore.

But the being standing in front of him - makes him freeze.

 _So this is our legacy_ , he thinks, horrified. _This is what has been made_.

The child stares back at him with too-big eyes filled with tears. There's a figure behind him, gently urging the boy on, but the ad'ik shakes his head minutely, a tear spilling over silently, smearing the grime on his face. The hand on the kid's shoulder gets rougher, shaking him harder, more insistently. But - the boy just clutches the blaster tighter to his chest. His gaze never leaves Cody's face.

"Hey," he rasps. The boy startles and backs away. The figure behind him pushes him forward again. "Hey, ad'ik."

Someone slaps him upside the head and his head rings like an Alderaanian funeral bell. He coughs, feeling sick and tasting blood, then spits again before looking up, his entire body _aching_. He tries to smile; the child is crying for real now, but silently, tears dripping down his face. He wonders how terrifying he must look, how wild his eyes are, how much blood there is on him. At least up to the elbows, he imagines.

"Any last words?" A voice snarls, so, so high above his head.

Cody looks at the kid, who's still staring at him, and wonders what kind of nightmares the boy will have. He finds that a child having nightmares is not something he can picture - but this boy's eyes are already haunted, and Cody wonders what he's already seen.

But it's time to go now, to march far away, so Cody closes his eyes, and thinks of everyone he's ever loved. Thinks of his vod'e, his siblings. Thinks of his closest brother. Thinks of the man who he considered a father. Thinks of all the others. Then thinks of the one he fell in love with, the one he trusted and who trusted him, who somehow loved him back. The one who he ordered dead.

He thinks of Jedi Obi-Wan Kenobi, and smiles one last time.

"May the Force be with you." He whispers, looking into the kid's blue, blue eyes.

And waits.

**Author's Note:**

> This... Happened. I might write a happier sequel if I get round to it, I am capable of being swayed...
> 
> Anyway, come yell at me [here](https://thedisasternerd.tumblr.com/)


End file.
